


la petite mort

by wintervioleteye (hawkguyed)



Series: rien ne pèse tant que un secret [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Crossover, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, eat me like one of your french boys, everything is people, french quotes and french food, fresh meat, james stop hanging out with serial killers, mild mild gore, questionable content - Freeform, really hannibal, references to wines that i have no idea about, sort of canon-divergence, stop feeding james, stop james stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkguyed/pseuds/wintervioleteye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He has been here for four hours, painstakingly preparing everything from the sauce to the neatly sliced mushrooms and herbs that he had dried himself, a carefully thought out meal that is both aesthetically pleasing and nutritionally balanced for most part.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rikacain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/gifts).



> La petite mort translates to 'the little death'. Usually used to describe orgasm, but well. Hannibal/Food. 
> 
> Thanks to rikacain for inspiring this in a way, I should also never let my mind run away with me apparently.

Screams break the almost silence as the knife digs in, slicing through skin and making a beautiful accompaniment to the faint strains of Mozart in the background, blood running over plastic and into the pan set at the bottom. 

Hannibal is careful. After all, there is no point in spoiling a perfectly good meal, not when the main course is so beautifully lean and tender. 

The knife continues its path down, parting skin and deftly avoiding scoring bone. Hannibal knows what he wants from the lovely, wounded creature spread out before him, and he knows just how to get it.

By the time his gloved fingers curl around that still sluggishly beating heart, the screams have stopped. 

\--

Cooking is an art. 

From the tune of the chef’s music to the waltz of spices and ingredients and the occasional percussion of the pan sizzling, cooking is an art. An art that Hannibal has mastered well, given his numerous experiences and experiments in the comforts of his own well-stocked kitchen. 

In the pan, the meat lets out the slightest hiss, a whisper that it is done and ready to be served. 

He has been here for four hours, painstakingly preparing everything from the sauce to the neatly sliced mushrooms and herbs that he had dried himself, a carefully thought out meal that is both aesthetically pleasing and nutritionally balanced for most part. 

At the front of the house, the door rings. 

The star of the show has arrived. 

Hannibal sets down the pan, the fire already turned down to let the meat simmer. He has just enough time to get the door, he thinks. A little brusque, but Bond will have to make do. 

“Mr Bond.” Those lips curl into a smile, careful to not let the shark-like gaze show through. “Come in, please.” 

The blond agent steps in, and despite his subtleness in checking for entrance and exit routes Hannibal recognizes the casing of his temporary apartment, those blue eyes darting around the space before they finally settle on his. There is a tension in Bond’s shoulders, something which has set the other man on edge despite this being his home ground, and Hannibal lays a hand on those shoulders to give it a friendly squeeze. 

Bond doesn’t flinch away, despite the flicker of some indescribable emotion in his eyes. 

Hannibal smiles, this one much more gentle and a little more indulgent, stepping back into his kitchen. He has no time to waste, picking up the pan and neatly depositing a perfectly cooked slice of meat onto the already prepared plate before carrying it out to the table. 

His dinner guest is lingering at the window, observing with a detached air the cityscape of London. He must not be in the city often, judging by those furrowed eyebrows above the look of intense concentration. 

“The city changes rather quickly, would you not say?” 

Bond makes a noncommittal sound but doesn’t move from where he is by the window. 

The plates barely make a sound as Hannibal sets them down. “Coq au violet, marinated in Beaujolais Nouveau with white mushrooms, onions and freshly dried herbs in a bouquet garni. You are familiar with French cuisine, no?” 

His guest turns, padding over to the table in a manner reminiscent of a large, dangerous predatory cat. Hannibal cannot help but stop and appreciate the fine, lean lines of his companion, muscle rippling under the veneer of humanity Bond wears. 

"Intimately, I would say. May I?” A callused hand comes to rest on the back of the chair, a brief lull where both of them teeter on the edge of something more yet not quite. 

“You appear rather well travelled, Mr Bond. Please, sit.” 

Across the table, Bond pauses. 

Something in the way he holds himself, something in the way he lives a lie, just like Hannibal does. He is innately a killer, hands stained an indelible red, and Hannibal can see the well-hidden part of Bond that almost revels in this, the way his eyes fix on the meat mixed in the stew. 

Then the dam breaks, Bond glancing up to meet Hannibal’s eyes as he settles down and Hannibal smiles. It would seem that today, Bond is a man of few words, something obviously weighing on him. A kill, perhaps, something that the blond almost regrets but doesn’t quite. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Hannibal pours them both a dark red glass of wine, a very much better version of the Beaujolais than the one used for their dinner, before raising it in toast. “Bon appetit, Mr Bond.” 

\--

Rarely does a meal sate him the way this one has, despite his misgivings and instinctual worry. 

Bond blames it on a rough week, three days in Kabul before a stopover in Dubai combined with an overnight trip to Yemen and a long streak of bruising down his back to show for it, but now with the wine buzzing pleasantly in his system the tension has finally bled out.

Still he can't seem to shake the feeling of wrongness. 

In his breast pocket, his phone buzzes. Bond pauses to tug the slim device out. The caller ID displays no name, but Bond recognises the number from dialing it many times in the course of his career. 

It's M. Which is somewhat surprising because the head of MI6 never calls unless it's an emergency involving Queen, country and some other significantly important organizations.. 

Bond stands. "Excuse me, I have to take this."

Hannibal nods, standing as well as he starts to remove empty plates and drained wine-glasses from the table. "Of course, by all means. I hope you enjoyed dinner, Mr Bond." 

Bond's smile is quick and fleeting before its gone and he strides a distance away, lifting the phone to his ear. 

"This is Bond. " 

The line crackles with static when M speaks. The man doesn't even bother with formalities, cutting straight to the chase. 

The words that come over the secure line inexplicably makes Bond's blood run cold. 

"We have a problem. Q is missing."


End file.
